


Not-So-Super-Man

by Torched22



Category: DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Multiverse, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-15
Updated: 2019-12-15
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:14:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21809389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Torched22/pseuds/Torched22
Summary: This is the story of a Clark Kent that you've never met, that you don't know. His ship didn't land in Kansas. He was never adopted by the Kent's. In another multiverse, on another Earth, there is a very lost Superman.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 9





	1. CHAPTER ONE

The Clark Kent of your Earth, of your time, sounds lovely, doesn’t he? Raised by Jonathan and Martha Kent, the son of Lara-El and Jor-El…he grew up working on the farm in Smallville, eating apple pies, playing football, pining after Lana Lang. But that existence couldn’t be further from mine. My name isn’t even Clark Kent, but I’m him…just in another dimension; a darker one apparently.

His, sounds like an idyllic upbringing. It’s exactly the kind of life that I would lay awake at night dreaming of. Had I been rescued by the Kent’s after the meteor shower, maybe it would have been my life. But alas, no farmer and his wife found me. The Meteor shower didn’t even happen in Kansas, not in my world.

I do have a lot of things in common with the Clark Kent you know. I have powers, the same ones he does, but I don’t dress like a Crayola-clad spandex commercial and I certainly never dubbed myself, “Superman.”

I don’t feel “super.” I could have all the powers in the universe and I still wouldn’t feel “super.” I’m more of the…barely making it…type. I have to take life one day at a time, one hour at a time, just to get through it. And the prospect of living forever is probably one of my greatest fears. Twenty-two years has felt like forty already, but I digress.

My name is Zach Mace and I grew up in foster care. To be honest, I’m not even sure where my last name came from. I had no birth certificate. I was found, naked, at three-years-old, waddling away from my crashed spaceship. It had an invisibility cloak, so it never raised any eyebrows. I was simply scooped up and dumped into the system.

My caseworker Nyla says to this day that she can’t believe I was never adopted. I have had “good luck” in the “looks department,” says my best friend Danny (and nearly everyone else I’ve ever met). It didn’t help though - I always scared away potential families. As a kid I’d have panic attacks. I didn’t trust a soul. I lived with my headphones in and my face buried in either a book or a sketchbook.

“Does he play sports?” one cheery blonde asked when I was eight. I glared at her.

“Is he gifted at any certain subject?” a man with a beard asked when I was thirteen.

“I bet he kills with the ladies,” a mousy lady sitting next to her husband had commented once when I was fifteen.

Eventually, I just aged out of the system. It was for the better, considering how … different … I was. It wasn’t easy, hiding my differences, having so many questions and no one to answer them. I broke everything I touched from age three to age eight. I had to hide rapidly developing muscles starting at eleven. I accidentally burned down a building when I was nine, but ran away just in time, just as the sirens were mounting. No one coached me through my powers. No one explained anything to me. I was a weirdo, who, from the age of six demanded my own room.

“There are so many kids here, you can’t have your own room, sweetie,” Meredith smiled down at me with mock sympathy. I rolled my eyes at her and her sickly-sweet smile disintegrated. Eventually, they had to give me my own room. I kept breaking into the roof and sleeping up there. The orphanage had no money for cameras, they had no idea how I kept doing it. It wasn’t hard, I just reached out a hand and crushed the lock, taking it with me and chucking it as far as I could off the roof (once, I accidentally took out a bird. I still feel guilty about that…watching what was once it’s body dissolve into a poof of gray feathers). Since replacement locks were becoming too expensive, I was finally shown to my own private, tiny room at the age of six. As I closed my brand-new door on Meredith, I gave her my own sickly-sweet smile.

I slept with the lights on. I had no posters to hang up. They could barely fit a mattress in there. It was a closet I think, with a naked bulb over-lighting the cramped space.

My old roommate Bert would tell me how much he missed me all the time. I didn’t miss him though, I knew I should, but I didn’t. And even though he said he missed me, he was probably lying. I often awoke during the night, screaming in my sleep. Who in their right mind would miss that? Not to mention, Bert couldn’t fall asleep unless the lights were off, which was a problem for me. I tried to keep them on, but Meredith would stick her obnoxious head in and shut them off. Once, we went back and forth about twenty times. I’d turn them on. She’d turn them off. I’d turn them on. She’d turn them off. Bert would be in his bunk, pillow over his head, whining his dismay. Five-year-olds were quite temperamental I’d gathered. I never was, I just didn’t want the lights off.

It wasn’t until I was about seventeen that it hit me why I hated the dark so much. It was the ship. The claustrophobic ship. I didn’t remember much of being in it, except that sometimes it was so dark…even with a smattering of pinprick lit stars off in the distance. I associated the dark with the loneliness, the terror. I cried and my cries echoed back to me unheard. I reached my arms out and found no arms reaching down to me. I babbled to myself and no one spoke back.

I think that broke something in me.

Once, in school (3rd grade), I tried talking to a counselor. My teachers could usually tell something was…off…with me, but only one teacher ever made me go to the counselor. The counselor’s name was Ms. Hendricks. She had hair the color of honey and perfume that hugged you even after you left the room. She made me feel safe at first. After about three weeks of talking with her, talking about surface stuff, I finally opened up to her. As I relayed my story to her of being in a spaceship, of having powers, she sat there and listened with a very serious look upon her face. Her usually smiley pink lips were pressed into a tight line and her warm eyes had lost their sparkle.

The very next day, she was at the orphanage. I was up in my room, pillow hugged to my chest, listening through six stories worth of floors and walls and people.

“I’m concerned about him,” Ms. Hendricks told Meredith and Nyla and Meredith’s boss, Mr. Cross. “He seemed so adamant that what he was telling me was the truth. I honestly couldn’t tell if he was messing with me or if he’s truly bought into this delusion.”

Delusion?! My tiny brain was incensed. I squeezed the pillow so tight that it exploded into a ball of feathers, just like that bird that I’d hit that one time. I kept listening as feathers fell around me like snow.

“Well, what if he does truly buy into this…delusion?”

“I believe that he’s too young to have schizophrenia. He may have some other underlying issue, but it would require extensive interviews and testing. It’s my hope that he’s simply vying for attention. Third graders do have quite active imaginations and since he’s…been in the system…he may feel starved for attention.”

This wasn’t my imagination! I could snap metal. I could burn things with my eyes. I could run faster than anyone. But I hadn’t demonstrated these things to Ms. Hendricks. I wanted to see how she would take what I said first, and clearly, she hadn’t taken it very well.

I squinted downwards and saw through the floors that separated us. Hendricks, Nyla, Cross and another strange man were all seated at the faux-wooden table on the second floor. I could see the tops of their heads and I imagined that they were tiny and that I could squeeze Meredith between my fingers and splat her. I imagined I could press my finger to Ms. Hendrick’s mouth and make her stop saying these things…she was making me look childish and foolish and like a liar.

I wasn’t a liar. Never was.

“Before we move on to testing, I think we should ask the boy…erm…”

“Zachary Scott Mace,” Nyla said, pushing my folder towards the stranger.

“Yes, we should ask Zachary if he was making up what he said. We should interview him further.”

“Interrogate a child?”

“No, certainly not. It could just be you. He likes you, right Nyla?”

“Yes,” she said unhappily.

“Good, then you ought to talk to him. “Mental health is something we take very seriously here at New Start, and I’d like you to leave the recorder on while you speak with him.”

She just nodded.

“Good,” the stranger clapped his hands together, “you call him down, and we’ll all go away while you speak with him.”

I couldn’t believe that Nyla was going along with all of this. Did she think I was a liar? I hoped not. The urge to cry started as a lump in my throat. I had opened up to Ms. Hendricks and she had utterly betrayed me. There was a sting behind my eyes but I pushed away the desire to sob into my feather covered mattress.

“Before we temporarily adjourn,” Mr. Cross spoke up, “I think we should also discuss whether Mr. Mace also has an anger problem.”

What?!?! I shot up like an arrow on my bed. Why would he say that?

“He’s always breaking things. He defies authority. Spends too much time alone. All the warning signs are there…”

“No,” Nyla said with disbelief in her voice. “He doesn’t have an anger problem, he’s just a strong boy. I think – no, I know – that when he breaks things, it’s on accident.”

“Or, it could be another cry for attention,” Ms. Hendricks piped in. I was liking her less and less with every passing second. The last thing I wanted was attention. “He must have gone through a hundred pencils in this semester alone.”

“We ought to keep a close eye on him, regardless of whatever diagnosis comes of this,” the stranger said.

“I doubt there will be a diagnosis,” Nyla said, attempting to defend me. A fondness bloomed in my chest for her and I wished that she could be my mom, but she already had four kids, all girls. I had already asked. She went to her car and cried afterwards, but she doesn’t know I know that.

It took all of ten minutes until I was in the hot seat, in the very room I was looking down upon. I fought the urge to fidget with my seat, knowing that the plastic would simply warp and break apart in my fingers.

“Zach,” Nyla said in her softest tone. “I’d like to talk to you about your discussion with Ms. Hendricks yesterday.”

I tried to keep my expression neutral. I was so bored, I already knew everything. Still, I did a good job waiting for her to finish.

“I need to know if what you told her is the truth or not. You know the difference between a truth and a lie, don’t you Zach?”

Of course, I did. I wasn’t a baby. Still, I wanted to cross my arms and pout.

“Yes. A lie is something made up, and the truth is what actually happened.”

“So what you told her…”

“I lied…I’m sorry,” I said quickly and sourly. It was killing me to lie to Nyla. I didn’t want to, but I had learned hard and fast that adults weren’t to be trusted.

“Why would you do that Zach?” she said confused. “That doesn’t sound like you at all.”

“I just…wanted to get out of class…” I lied some more. “I was bored.”

Her expression shifted to one of surprise. “You were bored?”

“Yes, I’m always bored in class,” I said, relieved to finally be telling the truth.

“Oh, well…maybe you can take some tests and we can figure out where you ought to be in school.”

“Good. Can I go now?”

“Zach…this is just…not like you at all. You’re never this short with me.”

“Short?”

“Yes, short tempered. Upset.”

“I’m just tired. I shouldn’t have lied and I’m really sorry. Can I go now?”

“Yes, you can go,” she said with a sad smile. As I reached the door, she informed me that I’d need to apologize to Ms. Hendricks. I wanted to snap the handle straight from the door and show her the truth. I wanted to burn laser holes into the wood. I wanted to run as fast as I could from the building and out into the city’s night air. But I couldn’t do any of those things.

I was trapped.

Trapped into behaving as if I were normal. Trapped into apologizing for lying when I was telling the truth. Trapped in the orphanage. Trapped in school. Trapped in a body different from everyone else’s and unable to talk about it to anyone. I couldn’t trust anybody. I knew what the “nut house” was…I had heard kids talking about asylums once. Jimmy said that if you got put there, you never came back. That they just put you in a jacket of straightness and shoved pills down your throat until you were normal. I knew that if I kept on with telling them the truth, that they’d think I was nuts. And nuts go to the nut house. Just being here was bad enough.

“Yeah, I’ll apologize to her Friday,” I said, leaving the room and heading to the stairwell. I went to my room that night and cried, which I had learned in second grade, boys weren’t supposed to do. Ethan pushed me once and hit me, called me a sissy when I had cried one day last year because the mutt that hung around the orphanage had gotten hit by a car and bled to death in my arms. But here, in my closet, I could cry, Ethan wasn’t here, or Meredith or stupid Ms. Hendricks. Here, I could draw. I could read. I could escape in my head. I could sleep with the light on.


	2. CHAPTER TWO

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The world's cruel. So is the multiverse.

The day I found out the multiverse was a real thing, not just some kooky scientific theory, I was sitting on my couch, eating popcorn and watching Ancient Aliens. “Ancient astronaut theorists believe…” I echoed before tossing buttery goodness into my mouth. 

The conclusion I’d reached after six episodes was that about 90% of the show was probably hooplah with about 10% viable possibilities thrown in. Then again, my judgement at that time couldn’t be trusted. The reason being, I hadn’t believed the multiverse was a thing. 

But it was. It is.

I have proof. I lived it. And yet, as I watched a stranger step out of a portal and into my living room, I couldn’t believe my eyes. 

That happened when I was 21, and the stranger who had stepped out of that portal, wearing an “S” on his chest, I would later find out - was me. 

Well, sort of me. 

The most dangerous thing about finding out there was a multiverse was how it affected me. It changed my view of the world, of myself, of my supposed progress. 

I walked through that portal with that stranger version of myself, and a week later, I stepped back through it and into my living room.   
The TV was still stuck on the History channel. My cherry red bowl of popcorn was still on the floor and the now, very cold, very stale popcorn was scattered about the rug. My cat, Jet, came barrelling towards me in a flurry of angry and questioning “meows.” 

My face was pale and my heart was pounding. I reached down and picked up Jet, stroking his soft black fur to soothe myself. 

For the first time in my life, I had put my powers to use to save people on a massive scale. I followed Superman around like a puppy and did as I was told to help him on his mission. He was brilliant and put together and loved by everyone. He had a suit and a cape and his life was so together. 

Looking at him gave me a headache. It was like staring at one of those images that can become another image. It was like that and it was also like trying on someone else’s glasses or attempting to watch a 3D movie without the glasses. It hurt my eyes, it scrambled my brain. He was me, but he wasn’t me at all. 

In one week, my entire world was flipped upside-down and turned inside-out. 

I was angry and empty and standing in my living room considering my entire existence as American Pickers filled in the silence. 

I’m not sure how long I stood there, but it must have been a long time. The episodes changed, the sun set. The thing that snapped me out of it was Jet standing at his empty bowl meowing. He was quite lucky that I had accidentally poured out way too much of his food the day I walked into that portal. 

I swallowed, shook off my shock, and went into the kitchen to grab him some food. 

He purred loudly, even as he scarfed down the nondescript brown kibble. He followed me everywhere that day, and night, and the next week. 

I didn’t sleep at all, not for seven days or nights. 

Growing up, I was made to sleep, I got used to it. But I learned that week that sleep isn't necessary for my existence. All I could do was lie awake, staring at the ceiling and thinking. 

Why hadn’t my ship landed in Kansas? Why hadn’t the Kents found me? I rolled over and sighed, clutching the pillow with a fist. Jet had to shift as well, miffed that I was tossing and turning so much. 

I was no astrophysicist but space and time seemed like a blanket to me, it seemed like the blanket I had kicked to the bottom of the bed. Superman was...surprised...to hear the details of my life, and I was shocked to hear the details of his. In every universe that he knew of, I - we - were Clark Kent. Except that I wasn’t Clark Kent, I was Zachary Mace. 

Once, when I was by his side, and the going got tough, he accidentally called me “Clark.” Hearing the name that should have been mine made something painful twist in my chest. He had never meant to call me that name, hell, he’d never meant to keep me that long. It was his intention to return me to my apartment the next day, but access to the portal was...interrupted...his plans were changed. I helped him. We got the portal back. Saved the day. And I was returned to my anxiety riddled life feeling woefully inadequate and completely gypped out of my own life. 

I could never be that. I could never be Superman. I couldn’t even be Clark Kent. 

Space and time were the blanket at the bottom of my bed, whole, save for a small tear. My existence was that tear. Something had gone wrong in the multiverse and the differences between me and my supposed counterparts were too vast. 

Superman treated me with dignity and respect. His sad blue eyes were full of sympathy as he told me of his idyllic life. I could do nothing but listen and hold back my tears. In the short time I got to know him, he trusted me, and I wish I could have returned that trust. 

The biggest difference between us - the secret I held, rose up in my throat, caged in by my teeth, squirming on my tongue. I nearly told him...I came so close...but then I asked myself what good would it do? So I clamped my jaw shut.

Not only was my name not Clark Kent, it wasn’t even Kal-El. 

Growing up, starting at age 12, I had known my biological father. I wish to god I didn’t know him, I spent my life wishing that all traces of him had been blown to bits on the fated Krypton. Sadly, he was here on Earth, delighting in my suffering and adding to it whenever possible. 

Jor-El wasn’t my father. 

I hadn’t told Clark...I did grab a strand of his hair from a brush at his home. I had to be sure. 

When I got back to Pittsburgh, I gave it to a cop I had known for the past three years and begged him to process it, to run it against my DNA. He was more of an enemy than a friend, but his curiosity must have been piqued, because he did as I requested. 

The day I got the results, I took the manilla folder outside, ignoring the rain and yanking the paper from it with shaking hands. Droplets of water soaked the paper as I struggled through the scientific lingo until the reality of what the paper said finally clicked in my head. 

At first, the paper said that there was an error. My DNA results showed that I had the same mother as Clark Kent, but the paternal side was harder to figure out. 

Breathless, I read the report over and over again. 

“Zach!” a familiar voice shouted behind me, but I ignored it. 

“Zach, I told you that the test was screwed up. They did it three times and kept getting the same error.” 

It was Deegan, my cop frienemy. 

My teeth began to chatter as I read that I had Clark’s father too - Jor-El. Relief swept over me before it was swiftly replaced with dread. Upon further inspection, I read that I...I had another father as well. Was that possible? I didn’t think it was, still, I focused on the black writing informing me that I had a second father. 

“Are you listening?” Deegan’s hand came to my shoulder and I jumped away as if burned. I took the papers and the folder and rushed towards the busy street. I needed to turn a corner, to run home. “Why did you give me two pieces of your hair?” I could hear Deegan shouting behind me, his voice drowned out by the mounting rain. 

I was Clark Kent. 

And I wasn’t.


End file.
